Enrique was in camp next morning, but at what hour of the night he had returned is unknown.  The rodeo had been granted for the following day; there was a pressing invitation to Don Lance—­unless he was willing to offend—­to spend the idle day as the guest of Don Mateo.  Enrique elaborated the invitation with a thousand adornments.  But the owner of Las Palomas had lived nearly forty years among the Spanish-American people on the Nueces, and knew how to make allowances for the exuberance of the Latin tongue.  There was no telling to what extent Enrique could have kept on delivering messages, but to his employer he was avoiding the issue.

“But did you get to see Anita?” interrupted Uncle Lance.  Yes, he had seen her, but that was about all.  Did not Don Lance know the customs among the Castilians?  There was her mother ever present, or if she must absent herself, there was a bevy of tias comadres surrounding her, until the Dona Anita dare not even raise her eyes to meet his.  “To perdition with such customs, no?” The freedom of a cow camp is a splendid opportunity to relieve one’s mind upon prevailing injustices.

“Don’t fret your cattle so early in the morning, son,” admonished the wary matchmaker.  “I’ve handled worse cases than this before.  You Mexicans are sticklers on customs, and we must deal with our neighbors carefully.  Before I show my hand in this, there’s just one thing I want to know—­is the girl willing?  Whenever you can satisfy me on that point, Enrique, just call on the old man.  But before that I won’t stir a step.  You remember what a time I had over Tiburcio’s Juan—­that’s so, you were too young then.  Well, June here remembers it.  Why, the girl just cut up shamefully.  Called Juan an Indian peon, and bragged about her Castilian family until you’d have supposed she was a princess of the blood royal.  Why, it took her parents and myself a whole day to bring the girl around to take a sensible view of matters.  On my soul, except that I didn’t want to acknowledge defeat, I felt a dozen times like telling her to go straight up.  And when she did marry you, she was as happy as a lark—­wasn’t she, Juan?  But I like to have the thing over with in—­well, say half an hour’s time.  Then we can have refreshments, and smoke, and discuss the prospects of the young couple.”

Uncle Lance’s question was hard to answer.  Enrique had known the girl for several years, had danced with her on many a feast day, and never lost an opportunity to whisper the old, old story in her willing ear.  Others had done the like, but the dark-eyed senorita is an adept in the art of coquetry, and there you are.  But Enrique swore a great oath he would know.  Yes, he would.  He would lay siege to her as he had never done before.  He would become un oso grande.  Just wait until the branding was over and the fiestas of the Christmas season were on, and watch him dog her every step until he received her signal of surrender.  Witness, all the saints, this row of Enrique Lopez, that the Dona Anita should have no peace of mind, no, not for one little minute, until she had made a complete capitulation.  Then Don Lauce, the padrino of Las Palomas, would at once write the letter which would command the hand of the corporal’s daughter.  Who could refuse such a request, and what was a daughter of Santa Maria compared to a son of Las Palomas?